Masks: The Outtakes
by L. Mouse
Summary: Short vignettes from my "Masks" universe that I couldn't fit into the main novella.
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: These are outtakes from my "Masks" universe that wouldn't play nice and fit into the story. Some are alternate endings to scenes, some are pure crack, some are back story I couldn't work in. You may wish to read that story as some of these may (or may not) make better sense after having read it.

* * *

Bee and Grimlock, fighting, was incredible mismatch.

Sam watched from the bleachers as the two circled one another. The top of Bee's head came up to Grimlock's hip in protoform -- in badass dinosaur alt mode, Bee was shoulder height to Grim. But Grimlock was faster, far more powerful, and far nastier in disposition than Bumblebee, and they both knew it. So did Sam, and he hoped this was not as serious of a fight as it appeared. Bee's only advantage was speed.

On the other hand, Bee was the one who'd initiated this match. Sam had seen it happen -- Grimlock had shoved past Bee a little too roughly, with not quite enough respect for Bee's personal space, when entering the main hangar. Bee had wordlessly planted a foot in Grimlock's aft end, nearly knocking Grimlock down. Grimlock had whirled -- and Bee's battle mask had clicked down and he'd made a "come and get me" gesture with his hands.

Ratchet had said, mildly, "If you two are going to kill each other, do it outside."

And Bee had promptly belted out of his speakers:  
_  
"Jurassic Park is frightening in the dark, All the dinosaurs are running wild!"_

"Grimlock _SMASH him little bot_!" Grimlock had announced, grabbing for Bee, who had dodged and ran out the door -- but only as far as the pavement in front of the hangar. There, Bee had spun and waited, crouched, eyes glittering bright blue through the shield of his battle mask.  
_  
"Someone let T. Rex out of his pen, I'm afraid those things'll harm me,_ _'Cause they sure don't act like Barney, And they think that I'm their dinner, not their friend!_ OH NO!"

Weird Al Yankovic's voice was probably one of the stranger things that Sam had ever heard Bee pipe through his speakers, though Sam had noted Bee had recently discovered _They Might Be Giants_, so he figured it could potentially be a lot weirder.

Sam watched from the bleachers beside the hangar now as the fight -- really, a game of keep-away, with Bee dancing just out of reach -- continued. Bee, not even trying to engage Grimlock, ducked and spun and dodged, and continued to harass the dinobot in song.  
_  
"Jurassic Park is frightening in the dark, All the dinosaurs are running wild, What a crummy weekend this has been ..."_

"Bee! Grimlock!" Optimus's voice held considerable amusement. "Please do not kill each other, I would have to complete the paperwork."

Bee glanced up as Optimus stepped out of the doorway of the hangar. Bumblebee's battlemask flipped back up, he grinned, shot a human-style salute at his leader, and then informed Grimlock in song, _"Well, this sure ain't no E-ticket, Think I'll tell them where to stick it, 'Cause I'm never coming back this way again ... Oh no... oh no__!"_

Bee took off running with the larger 'bot in hot pursuit. Sam was relieved to hear burbling Cybertronian laughter from Bee as they disappeared around a corner of the hanger.

Optimus said, mildly, and without any oncern, "One of these days, Grimlock is actually going to catch him."

"Would Grim hurt him?"

"Not fatally," Optimus chuckled. "However, Grimlock is well aware that Bumblebee is ticklish."


	2. Chapter 2

***THIS IS NOT THE REAL ENDING TO MASKS***

This was AN ending, one of several, and I thought I'd post it because I do like it. However, the actual epilogue for Masks is very different. Therefore, consider this an "alternate ending" and nothing more.

* * *

Mikaela clicked the alarm button on her key chain and the little yellow mini-SUV in the grocery store parking lot beeped twice and then greeted her with a cheerful-sounding, "Hello, Mikaela!"

She jumped, then scowled. Her younger grandson had gotten his license last month, and she'd let him take the car to the mall yesterday. Clearly, he'd played with the settings. With some irritation, she said, "Shut up, car."

"Acknowledged," the car replied, and then fell silent. She told herself it was entirely her imagination that the vehicle was radiating offense and hurt at the rebuke.

She didn't like talking cars -- never had. Not _real _cars, anyway. Fifty years had passed, she reflected, and it still hurt to think of them. When cars talked, or drove themselves, or even unlocked themselves when she approached, it was a reminder of friends she had once had.

A bit irritated, she lifted the rear gate, stashed her two bags of vegetables behind the seat, and then climbed into the boxy vehicle. It was a tiny car, and underpowered; still, it was yellow, and that counted for something. In fifty years, she'd never owned a vehicle that wasn't. This one was new -- Sam had purchased it for her for her birthday the month before. And he'd known. Yellow. It was _custom _yellow, and she'd joked she'd keep it until was custom _faded_, and they'd laughed a good bit, to the mystification of the kids and grandkids.  
_  
Always have to have the yellow cars, but heaven forbid they talk. _

The paint was nostalgic. The speech was just creepy, because, for all of the technological advances of the last four decades, there was nobody home to back those words up. Her current car could recognize her at fifty paces, greet her by name, understand normal speech, and respond to requests as advanced as 'please pick me up at the curb in front of the store' or 'go park yourself.' But it didn't sing, it did not tease her shamelessly, and it could not tell the difference between her happy moods and her sad moods. It didn't spontaneously play _My Girl _when she walked up, though she certainly could have programmed it to.

Most of all, it didn't laugh.

And so she told it to shut up and not talk to her at all.

Traffic was light -- it was mid-day, and most people who weren't sixty-mumble year old ladies were either at work or in school. Only retirees and people with very strange work schedules went grocery shopping at eleven AM.

When she started the car, the news collector began to read to her automatically -- stories it had found that fit her search settings. The first two articles were political -- this year's election promised to be a doozy. The third story in, however, was of a meteor sighting over the Great Plains with a huge fireball, and a reported impact.

It was, of course, a false alarm. They always were. At first, whenever there was a report of a bolide -- a fireball -- she had spent days waiting for a cheery phone call (because she'd kept the same phone number) or perhaps a surprise visitor in her driveway. A little yellow Camaro. A great big Topkick with custom exhaust pipes. A Hummer, often politically incorrect both in form and sense of humor. A motorcycle or three. A DeLorean. A Red Porsche. One Peterbuilt, one Mack truck. Even a damned thirty foot tall metal dinosaur, because she had a feeling that Grimlock would not easily give up _that _alt-form even if he had to walk (stomp) everywhere he went.

As far as she knew, the meteors were always just meteors.

After fifty years she'd mostly stopped looking, though certain car makes turned her head -- like the copper colored Camaro, just now, that had zoomed past her in traffic. The Camaro was a sleek little car, with darkly tinted windows and a body shape that resembled Bee's 2009 model about as much as the 2009 model had resembled the 1976 model. Really, it shouldn't stir any memories at all.

But it was a Camaro.

And she looked.

And wished.

As she always had.

For fifty years.

Her home was just outside of town: an acre, a house, lots of grass. A huge back yard. And it had an impractically big garage -- she and Sam had, when they were house hunting thirty years ago, taken one look at the barn-like structure with the thirty foot ceilings and declared to each other, "_Sold!"_

Thirty years ago, ten years after they'd left, she'd held out hope they might return soon, within a human lifespan. She wanted to be able to offer them a roof over their heads, at least temporarily, if they came visiting. She'd stopped hoping. The distances were so vast, their lives so long, she'd resigned herself to never seeing them again. The garage now held a boat, and a huge stack of boxed dirt, because Sam was offering free storage to the always-tapped university where he was an archeology professor. Currently, it was boxes of dirt. For awhile, they'd also had some large piles of equipment but those had all been shipped off to Arizona for a big dig.

Still, the Camaro, and her talking car, had reminded her of the real reason why they'd purchased the house with the small-aircraft-hanger sized garage.

She parked in the circular drive in front of the house, retrieved her groceries from the back of the SUV, and started to walk up to the house. She had her keys out and was only a few feet away when she noticed the toy somebody had left on her steps. At least, she thought it was a toy at first -- but then, on second look, she was baffled. It was a strikingly unusual object -- a globe the size of a basketball, made of crystal and gold, ruby glass and shiny obsidian metal, all spun and woven together in intricate braids and patterns. It had _depth _to it, like the designs went through its core, and a very organic appearance.

The thought that it might be Cybertronian didn't occur to her until the device unfolded. It made a familiar noise, the noise of transformation, as it swirled and spun and twisted in a rearrangement of parts and pieces that was like a dance. A moment later, a waist high transformer, with eyes of the clearest, purest blue that she had ever seen stood there. Then it _smiled _at her.

She knew it was a transformer. It had to be. There was no other explanation. It looked like no mech she'd ever seen, however. Aside from the pure natural grace of the little mech, it had no weapons, and no more armor than a few thin plates of golden metal over its chest, head, and major joints. This was not a fighter -- not at all. Wheelie had more armor than this creature.

And the face was -- well, not human precisely, but far more expressive than any 'bot she'd known. Those eyes were enormous, shining blue. It had high cheekbones and a mobile mouth -- the smile was abso-freaking-lutely _adorable _and actually bared teeth _-- _and a button nose. It was cute. It was beautiful and disarmingly adorable and utterly defenseless. No weapons. _None_. Not even empty mounts.

"What's your name?" She asked, wondering if it could speak. Of _course _it could.

"Honey," it said, sounding a little shy, and very female. It -- she -- stared down at her feet, suddenly. "I'm Honey."

She crouched down in instinctive reaction to the little one's nervousness. Her knees protested, and her ice cream was melting, but damnit, there was a transformer on her doorstep! "I'm Mikaela. How did you get here?"

"My creator brought me," the little 'bot -- and she had an Autobot logo, embossed into the back of one small, slender hand -- met Mikaela's eyes. "He said I'm to be yours and Sam's."

"Your creator is Bumblebee, right?" _Mine_? She thought wildly. _But you can't 'own' an Autobot -- how could she be mine?_ And somehow, she knew this was Bumblebee's work.

"Bee made Honey," the little 'bot said, with a suddenly brilliant smile, and Mikaela belatedly caught the pun and she couldn't help it -- she laughed aloud, and crouched to be on the same eye level with the small Autobot.

"Let me see you!" Mikaela said, grinning so broadly her jaw hurt. "I never thought I'd see another Autobot again ..."

"I'm the first Sparkling from Bee's Cube. Though he's Gold Prime now to everyone but his friends. You're a friend. I guess he's still Bee to you."

"The first from a new Allspark?" She heard what Honey had said, and laughed aloud, with more delight. It was unbelievable good news -- news she'd waited most of her life to hear, and had thought she might never know. The distances between worlds were so vast that she had feared she would never learn if her friends had succeeded in their quest. "Bee brought you? He's _here_?"

She nodded, suddenly solemn again. "He's right behind you."

She turned around, seeing only the little yellow SUV.

"No, no, no!" She said, in disbelief, laughing, as the SUV suddenly unfolded and stood up. "You idiot!"

His eyes were twinkling in amusement. "You did say to shut up."

Autobots didn't hug -- they weren't built for it -- but she threw herself at him anyway. He bent over and scooped her up, holding her carefully against his chest, knowing what she wanted. He was lumping and bumpy, sunwarmed and smelled of hydraulic fluid and grease and ozone. His hands supported her carefully, and for a moment, she was eighteen again, and he was her best friend in the entire world.

He finally set her down, however, and said with amusement evident in her voice, "I wanted to see your face when you saw Honey."

"She's beautiful!"

The child tugged at Mikaela's sleeve. "I'm this many human years!" And she held up four fingers.

"Plus some transit time in stasis," Bee said, with a smile. "And she'd been watching a lot of human movies while we prepared for de-orbit. I think that's where she got the 'this many' thing from, but she is correct in the years."

"You," Mikaela said, bending over, and addressing the child, "must have made quite a few Autobots very happy when you were created."


	3. Chapter 3

Silverbolt ducked through the medbay hangar's doorway and straightened up, head close to the rafters. Ratchet, who was busy pulling fiber optics through an armored conduit for Elita's leg, did not look up. Elita, however, did, and said in a friendly tone of voice, "Hey, Silver. Do you need something?"

Ratchet added, "And if you're going to whine about the C-130 again, can it, Bolt-bucket."

He didn't like the C-130 form. It was incredibly slow, primitive and ugly. He would have much preferred to be a very large, sleek hypersonic jet -- and this world even had a few, though none currently in service, and none that could transport the other 'bots. However, he did acknowledge it was an aerodynamically stable craft, and well suited for potentially rough conditions. Regarding the Hercules, he had griped at Optimus a bit, and at Magnus a good bit more on general principles, but not at the medic at all. He felt Ratchet's response was, therefore, unwarranted, and he sighed in mild offense. "That is not why I'm here, Ratchet. Where is Sunstreaker?"

"He's next door in the rec hangar," Elita said, when Ratchet simply growled. "Ratchet couldn't take his whining anymore."

"Alone?" Silverbolt asked, and winced.

"I warned him," Ratchet said, "that if he said one more nasty thing he was going to be spending the rest of the day out of my earshot."

"He's injured." Silver's eyes narrowed in irritation. Injured, in pain, and an Autobot.

"So is every other 'bot on this base." Ratchet looked up at Silver, finally, and Silverbolt realized just how _tired _Ratchet looked. "We're all walking wounded, including you, Silverbolt. You're scheduled for my tender mercies tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred hours."

"Ratchet," Silver dialed his annoyance down several notches, and asked with real concern, "When was the last time you recharged?"

"Oh, don't you _even _start on me, 'Bolts." Ratchet pointed a finger at him, then moved it to the door and stabbed the air in the direction of the exit mercilessly. "Get. Out. You looking for Sunny? He's next door. Primus only knows what you want with him ..."

"His brother is doing reconnassaince at the moment," Silver said, mildly. "I was concerned about Sunstreaker's emotional state."

_That _got him a bemused look from both patient and medic. Elita lifted an eyeridge at him; her opinion of Sunstreaker could generally be summed up as, 'Would slag him in a heartbeat if he wasn't useful in a fight.' And she'd stated this plainly quite a few times. She also knew that he didn't care for Sunstreaker much either, though Silverbolt, as a rule, made a real effort to get along with everyone. Life was simply easier if he had friends rather than made enemies.

Ratchet snorted, "Silverbolt, he's bugfuck crazy, probably sociopathic, his anger management circuits are fritzed, and he only behaves at all because if he doesn't he stands a good chance of losing Sideswipe. And Sideswipe is even irritated enough at him, at the moment, to _take _a long recon mission to avoid him."

Silverbolt inclined his head in a nod of acknowledgment. "Thank you for directing me to him, Ratchet."

_That love for his brother -- the _only _person in the world that Sunstreaker cares about _-- _is what I am counting on._

Silverbolt had been a leader, once, though he hadn't commanded anyone in millenia. The Autobots had a deep, talented pool of officers, and Silverbolt was content let the others take charge. However, he had observed that the usual low-level irritation that most of the 'bots felt towards Sunstreaker had jumped up recently. He had known the twins long enough to realize that Sunny was _useful_ in battle. He didn't want his team to lose any possible advantage, even an advantage as unpleasant to live with as Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker was, as Ratchet had said, in the recreation area in the hangar next door. Specifically, he had been deposited, legless and armless (and Silver was very sure that Sunny had been in posession of one arm after the fight, but perhaps it had been removed for repairs) on the floor. The room had a large ring drawn on the floor for sparring practice, and not much else -- they were still trying to get actual _recreational _items set up in here. A large projector was on order, for group video-watching, and a few other things. For now, though, it was a mostly empty space with no other 'bots in it.

Sunny glanced up as Silverbolt entered, then said sourly, "Come to stare at the slag heap? Or has Optimus finally decided to offline me until the end of the war?"

Silverbolt sighed, and sat down next to the self-described slag heap. _Offlining you until the end of the war is a real possibility and we both know it._ He didn't say a word. Being the leader of a gestalt team of combiners had taught him a _lot _about dealing with angst. And he'd known Sunstreaker for almost as long as he'd been online. Sunny was a bit of a jerk -- okay, a _lot _of a jerk -- with prickly edges and a nasty sense of humor that often involved only one-sided amusement, on Sunny's end. But he was also hurting, and if there was one thing Silverbolt knew, it was what emotional pain was. He might not like the mech much, but he figured he could at least get his head screwed on a little straighter.

Sunstreaker, as Silverbolt well knew, liked to talk.

"Go away, and leave me alone. I don't want to talk to anyone," the 'bot informed him, sounding quite angry.

"Sideswipe is with Ironhide and Arcee. They seem to make a very good team," Silverbolt said, quietly. Sunny wasn't as bad as Bluestreak, but he was still constitutionally incapable of sitting in sullen silence for long. He _would _talk to Silverbolt.

"What do you know about fucking ground troops? They're infantry. You're a damn flier." Sunstreaker cast a baleful look in Silverbolt's direction -- they _had _replaced his optics, at least, though his face was a charred ruin.

Silver shrugged expressively. "I was speaking more of the relationship between them than their tactical prowess. They trust each other, and there's cameraderie there. Your brother has made good friends with the two of them."

_And I wonder if the decision to split the twins does not have something to do with Optimus and Magnus believing Sideswipe needs friends beyond just his brother. The two of them are so tight that might as well be welded together at the hip, but 'Siders is a good bit more sane and reasonable than his brother. There's every chance that we _will_ someday need to offline Sunstreaker for our own good, or he could be killed in battle. Sideswipe will survive the loss much better if he has other friends to turn to._

Silverbolt well knew the need for 'friends' in the face of that sort of loss. _If not for Bluestreak ..._

"Yeah, well, friends won't always keep you alive," Sunstreaker snapped. Then he huffed a sigh and said, "I should _be _there with him. I'm supposed to be watching his back, not a geriatric gunner and mech with a bad case of multiple personalities."

"You're worried something will happen to him and you won't be there to help. Can't be there to help." Silverbolt leaned back, somewhat cautiously, against one of the pillars supporting the hangar's roof. He regarded Sunstreaker calmly.

"Yeah, well, thanks _counselor_, any idiot would be able to figure that out." Sunstreaker didn't have arms to fold, but he hunched his shoulders as if he was thinking about doing so. Then he snarled, "And _you_? You had _four _brothers and you couldn't keep any of them alive."

Silverbolt had been expecting Sunstreaker to lash out, though perhaps not exactly in that manner. He couldn't help the purely mental flinch, or a sudden flare of anger, but he had not been the leader of his brothers for nothing. He'd actually heard worse a few times. Instead of lashing out right back, he quietly said, "We were a gestalt, Sunny. A combiner team. The first, among the Autobots. We had a relationship very much like between Cybetronian twins, except that there were five of us. We knew each other to the core of our beings -- which didn't mean we always got along."

"You and Skydive were always a bit tense," Sunstreaker observed.

"Mmm. Yes. I often think that Skydive should have been our leader, not me ... I was designated leader because I am good at looking out for others, and good at diplomacy, but he was so much better at tactics. And he was the first to die." Silverbolt sighed. "You know I tried to save him."

Sunstreaker snapped, "I was there."

Silverbolt inclined his head in agreement. "Strapped to a Decepticon's work table with datalink cables coming out of your aft, as I recall, but yes, you were there."

Sullen silence met that reminder of what the Decepticons had done to him. Green optics glared coldly.

"We rescued you and Bluestreak," Silverbolt said, after he'd managed to calm himself. "And lost Skydive in the fight. Two for one dead -- a fair trade, I suppose, though for us it was as if we had lost part of our sparks themselves. We were _right there_, Sunny, flying in formation next to him in battle, and we lost him anyway. There was nothing we could do."

He shuttered his optics, remembering Skydive -- daring, brave, so very smart. Skydive had been keenly analytical, yet intensely courageous at the same time. He had not liked fighting, but he had been good at it. His favorite memories of Skydive were of him _pushing _himself -- pulling off stunts that were well beyond the design specs of his frame, sometime successfully and sometimes not. He'd popped welds more than once; had stalled out on a regular basis; had crashed a few times. Silverbolt had lived in fear that someday Skydive might manage to permanently offline himself by smacking into a rocky planet somewhere, but in the end, it had been, perhaps predictably, a Decepticon missile that had killed him.

"After that, we weren't a combiner team any more -- but we were a _team_, Sunstreaker. We were four brothers." Silverbolt rested his hands on his knees and regarded the mangled remnants of the other Autobot in silence, waiting for Sunny to say something back.

He didn't have to wait for long. "This is supposed to make me feel better? First you point out I'm worried about 'Sides. And then you tell me you lost _your _brother and couldn't do a thing about it? You're daft."

"We lost Slingshot in another battle, on some blasted moon with just enough atmosphere for us to fly," Silverbolt didn't rise to the bait, and kept calmly speaking. "You weren't there -- I think you and your brother were off on a mission somewhere. It was a supply run, and routine. So routine the rest of us were in recharge when it happened. He was ambushed, and I don't even know who did it. The moon was in orbit around a gas giant so large it was nearly a second sun, and the Decepticons shot them off the moon and into the planet's atmosphere. He was alive, but we could not rescue him from that gravity well. He could radio us, though. He was conscious. We had to ... we had to retreat, Sunny, as the Decepticons were beating us to slag, and flee before the gravity and pressure claimed his life. We had to say goodbye knowing he was going to die, and knowing there wasn't anyone in range with the ability to get him out."

Silverbolt shuttered his optics again. Slingshot had been harsh, abrasive, and had no few character flaws, including an irritating tendency to take sole credit for victories that were rightly shared by the whole gestalt. As leader, he'd spent more time smoothing over difficulties between Slingshot and other Autobots than the rest of the gestalt caused all together. And it had hurt, hurt to the very core of his being, to say _farewell, our brother _with Slingshot screaming for them not to leave him behind, and knowing he was going to die alone.

Neither Fireflight nor Air Raid had been inclined to follow orders and leave Slingshot behind. He had been forced to chose between one dying brother (who he could not possibly rescue) and two living ones. He and Magnus and Grimlock (because this was before the Decepticons had captured Grimlock) had been required to take Air Raid down when he'd pulled a pulse cannon on them. Meanwhile, Hot Rod, so _very _young then, had somehow managed to cajole Fireflight into leaving without physical force -- possibly, Roddy had convinced 'Flight that he needed to stay alive to protect his other two brothers. Though getting 'Flight to think that far ahead would have taken a small miracle.

Sometimes he could still hear Slingshot's helpless screams as he woke from recharge.

He continued, despite a low growl of irritation from the other mech, "You and your brother were with me when Fireflight died."

Unwillingly, Sunstreaker said, "Shockwave's missile."

"On that sparkless moon, yes." Silverbolt had been offline when it happened, knocked out by a separate missile. He'd woken to find another brother gone, and Ratchet so worried about his own emotional state that the medic had dropped his customary surliness -- at least, until Silverbolt had pointed out that a sympathetic Ratchet was scarier than a cranky Ratchet.

"I don't know what happened to Air Raid," Sunstreaker said, quietly, after a moment.

"He's not dead."

Sunny glanced over at him, the gears and pistons in his neck groaning as he moved his head. "I thought he was."

"You know Optimus's rule about not attacking other Autobots, right?" Silverbolt spoke without opening his optics.

"Yeah." Sunstreaker sounded positively surly. Had there been enough of his face left to do so, he probably would have been glowering. "I know it."

_Because you're on a final warning. _Silverbolt was well aware of Sunstreaker's record. He was still an officer; it was still possible they might ask him to lead a team into battle. He got reports from Ratchet on the mental status of the other Autobots, and disciplinary reports from Magnus, just like the other officers.

"Air Raid blamed me for a lot of things," Silverbolt said, quietly. "But things were okay until they needed me to go on a mission behind enemy lines. Air Raid was injured, and I was the only flier at the base. There was a group of Autobots pinned down and they needed me to do an airdrop of medical supplies to them -- two were too injured to move."

Silverbolt huffed a sigh through his vents, and said, "I must have been with Optimus and his crew."

"Yes, you and your brother were that mission to the Nebulans with Prime. Prowl was in charge at the base , and Prowl was one of the 'bots behind enemy lines." Silverbolt blinked open his optics, and regarded Sunstreaker for a moment. "You understand, we had to get supplies to them -- weapons, rockets, fuel. And I was going to drop in First Aid, as Prowl had an energon leak, and had taken a hit to his coolant pump."

"Of course."

"I am not a very good fighter," Silverbolt was only too willing to admit that. "I don't have the reflexes for dogfighting, and I just don't _like _it. But it was Prowl, and the others, and we had to get them out, so of course I agreed. And Air Raid ... Air Raid disagreed. He was not able to fly himself, but he threw a huge stink and finally turned his weapons on Ratchet. Damn near killed him. And when I stepped in, Air Raid shot at _me_, screaming it was better that I die at his hand than be captured and tortured by the Decepticons."

He could still hear _those _screams in his head. Air Raid's utter and absolute fury, and the insanity in his optics. He'd lost three brothers and was convinced he was going to lose a fourth, and was willing to do anything, including kill other Autobots, to save him. And when _that _didn't work, he'd tried to kill Silverbolt himself to 'save' him from a fate potentially worse than death.

Silverbolt added, "I was wounded, in the fight, and unable to deliver the supplies they needed. The 'bots behind enemy lines, they were all killed, though they never found Prowl's body. We don't know what happened to him."

He added, "That was twice. The first was when Air Raid disregarded direct orders from every officer in the field to try to save Slingshot, when there was no hope of saving him. Attempting to kill me, and shooting Ratchet, was twice. They offlined him after that. The only ones who know what happened are those who were there that day -- he cost us _Prowl_ and four others. He'll face a trial at the end of the war, assuming there ever is an end. I don't think I'll be there. I'm still furious at him. Not only did he cost Autobot lives that day, and try to kill me, but I lost my last brother in the same moment of stupidity."

Silence, from Sunny, for a long moment. Then Sunstreaker said quietly, in an unusually civil voice, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Silverbolt said bluntly, "You're being an idiot. With no arms and no legs you _still _managed to piss of Ratchet so badly he doesn't even want to see you. Ordinarily, you would be getting the first repairs, but I note he's dumped you off here by yourself. You've threatened Mikaela, you've refused to cooperate with anyone who tries to work with you, and why -- because your _paint _is scratched?"

"If you haven't noticed, it's a bit more than missing paint," Sunstreaker said, and the anger had returned to his voice.

"Yeah, I get that." Silverbolt stood up. "But as long as you're sitting here like a pile of slag, you can't keep your brother safe. The fastest way to get repaired is going to be to _stop pissing off the Chief Medical Officer and his assistant_."

"Like you care about me getting repairs. Or my brother."

Silverbolt stared down at the crumpled ruin of a 'bot. Sunstreaker really did look pathetic.

"What I care about," Silverbolt said, short and sharp, "is that the Decepticons have killed three of my brothers, and the fourth is deactivated, and _I want to win this war_. Preferably as quickly as possible. That's my motivation and you, Sunstreaker, are an important part of that goal. By contrast, what _you _care about is your brother. You can't keep him safe if you're in this state. You _might _be able to protect Sideswipe once you're on your feet again. -- Now, you can sit there like a lump feeling sorry for yourself, and or you can start being a lot nicer to Ratchet and the other medics."

Sunstreaker stared, wordless.

Silverbolt leaned over and hissed, "I honestly do not care if you are crazier than a glitch mouse that just got into the high grade, as long as you can keep it to yourself and we can aim you at the Decepticons as needed. But everyone on this base would much prefer that you keep your special brand of crazy to yourself. You have managed to piss off every commanding officer you've ever had, plus the entire medical staff, plus every Autobot I personally know and plenty I don't. Even your _brother _has reservations about your mental state. And Sideswipe loves you more than his own spark."

"What can I say, I'm talented that way."

"We are short on resources and limited on medical staff. It is _entirely _possible that they may decide to simply deactivate you because the cost/benefit analysis doesn't work out for repairing you and getting parts is going to be a huge challenge. At the moment, there's zero emotional reason for anyone to fix you. They'll offline you until the end of the war -- or until our race dies a slow and lingering death. You may never wake up again. And once you're deactivated, where does that leave Sideswipe? Would you rather be a pile of slag quietly rusting away somewhere, or would you like to be back on your feet so you can watch his back?"

Sunstreaker grunted. It sounded like it might have been an affirmative.

"I know you are perfectly capable of being charming," Silverbolt poked him in the crumpled chest armor with one finger. "I would suggest you apologize to Ratchet, then do your best to be nice."

"They know me. They won't buy it."

"They're medics," Silverbolt snorted. "They don't have to like you. Ratchet would fix Megatron himself, as long as Megatron wasn't being actively vile and said 'please'."

"Would not."

"Okay, probably not Ratchet the Hatchet." Silverbolt grinned, letting Sunstreaker see the smile. "But you are not Megatron. You're an Autobot."

He knew he'd made his point when Sunny said, "Go away, Silverbolt. You're annoying."

"Probably," Silver straightened up. "But I'm also right."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes:

This scene is heavy spoilers through Chapter 44 or so of _Masks_. I've decided to cut it from _Masks_ because it gives away a little too much of Fang's motivations. So this is seriously bigtime spoilers. Also, I probably should have done more foreshadowing with Death and Fang.

If anyone hasn't been reading _Masks, _these are both OC's. Deathwheels is a former harmless maintenance mech who Fangface rebuilt as a badass monster truck. He's smarter than the average Decepticon, has a wicked sense of humor to match Fang's own, and he plays the dumb minion to perfection because it amuses both of them, and it gives them an advantage when they think he's just another lackey. None of this has really been touched on in Masks yet, though the chapters are coming together.

Fang himself is complicated, to say the least. On the one hand, he's kind to his subordinates, he's capable of love and self-sacrifice, and he's brilliantly intelligent. On the other hand, at least part of his motivation for being a 'good guy' among the Decepticon ranks is that he enjoys the hero-worship, affection, and sense of power he gets when he treats people well and they respond positively to it. He's not entirely altruistic when he repairs a broken and discarded worker, or makes a show of compassion and lets a mech he's bested in battle live. It's as much about power to him as it is about morality. On the third hand, part of him _does _see that there are wrongs in the universe, and he's willing to fix them. However, he also places a high value on his own aft and would sacrifice almost anything (short of Wheelie, probably, or Deathwheels after this scene) to survive if his own life is threatened. Finally, he's got the robot version of ADHD, doesn't always think his plans through completely, is as impulsive as hell, and annoys others just because he finds it funny to get an aggravated reaction.

Fangface is _loads _of fun to write. So's Death.

Because I love the characters, and because I know some of my readers are fond of Fang too, I thought I would post it here. Again, here be massive spoilers. (And, err, romance between robots who've assumed male pronouns.)

* * *

With the door shut and the privacy shields up on Starscream's lab, Fang transformed and then sent Death a tight burst of files from the meeting with the Autobots. "Analyze, give me your input, yadda yadda."

Deathwheels nodded curtly. "This will take some time. Permission to contact the 'bots for clarification on a few items?"

"Granted, of course. Just share what they tell you with me. I'll tell Optimus to expect your questions." Fangface sighed. He hurt, and he was tired, and he'd been left shaken to his core by the words of the 'bots. "Death, Optimus thinks I'm like a keystone for everything."

He had to _talk _to someone. He kept his own counsel most of the time, but this was too big. Deathwheels was really the only person he knew who he could trust.

Deathwheels walked over to the pile of broken and deactivated maintenance 'bots that was piled in one corner of the lab. He stared down at them, at the mangled parts and dented armor. A few were leaking fluids: energon, lubricant, hydraulic fluids. No coolant; all of the mechs were small enough for air-cooled systems. The fluids made a greasy puddle under the bodies, and he made a mental note to get someone to clean it up. It was a fire hazard, particularly since some of the capacitors and power cells might carry enough of a charge to throw a spark. He refused to acknowledge emotionally that he'd known any of them before the Autobots had fragged half his most loyal troops.

Finally, Death said, "Optimus is right."

Fangface huffed a sigh. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. It was too much responsibility. It made everything too real. This wasn't a game anymore. "I want to set things up so that command transfers to you if ..."

Deathwheels spun around sharply, surprised. Then his optics narrowed. "If you give me that kind of power, how can you trust me not to take over from you someday?"

Fangface took a step backwards, brought all his weight down on his bad leg, and staggered into a table. He caught himself, eyes going huge and wide as much from the implications of Death's words as from the agony he was in. Joint injuries hurt like the pit, but Fang's reaction was emotional. What did Death mean? Was Death implying he _would _take over if he could?

"And how do you know I even want that kind of responsibility?" Deathwheels shook his head. "I don't."

His minion's words had the ring of truth to them. Deathwheels had little ambition of his own. It was one of the reasons that Fang loved him so much. He was the perfect lackey: smart, sensible, calm, and perceptive, without any desire for command of his own. He'd told Fangface in the past that commanding others was just too much of a strain on his processors, and he preferred problems without so much unpredictability. He was happiest with a job to do, be it scrubbing a floor or picking his way throuh terrabytes of data to find the incriminating patterns that had allowed them to find the spies. He was meticulous and patient in his work, and startlingly intelligent for a mech who'd begun his life with 'washing things' as his primary function.

He was also good at polishing armor.

"I need more people I can _really _trust." Fangface ran a hand over his face. He had loyal commanders, but most had their own agendas too. Deathwheels was the only mech he'd trust with knowledge of what the Autobots had said to him, much less his responses. "That's one advantage that the 'bots have over us. Optimus trusts his people. I have you alone to confide in."

Deathwheels stepped closer to Fang, who simply looked up at him. He said softly, "You fixed me after Soundwave broke me."

"Liked you before that," Fangface sighed. He tried to hitch himself up on to the table, and failed with a hiss of pain. He wanted to sit down, and the table was a better choice than a chair. He'd have to rise out of a chair. He could slide off the table. "You were smart, and you weren't afraid of me. You joked with me."

Deathwheels said softly, "May I help you?"

Fangface hated letting anyone in that close, but it was Death, and he trusted him. After an inital tensing of his body in reaction to the idea, he npdded acceptance of the help. Death put both hands on Fang's hips and boosted him up, then companionably leaned against the table next to him.

Deathwheels continued, quietly, "I figured I was dead when Soundwave grabbed me. Soundwave wanted to make me a cassette, and I fought back with code, and he decided I wasn't worth the effort and that I would never be loyal. He left me injured and dying, internals ripped out and my spark chamber cracked from his attempts to install a quantum link to his own core. I wasn't even conscious and I was minutes from death. He intended for me to die as he couldn't allow evidence that he'd failed a project to exist. But you rebuilt me, then gave me a new designation and told me never to tell any of the other officers what you'd done. It could have hurt your own goals."

"I could trust you." Fang repeated. "I need people I can trust."

"You do." Deathwheels straighted up, but only so that he could move closer to Fang. "Boss, you need someone you can trust completely. I mean, _completely_."

"I trust you."

"You do, but you can't." Deathwheels's thighs bumped against Fang's knees. "Just now, you flinched when I offered to help you."

"Been attacked a few times in my life when I wasn't expecting it," Fangface sighed. "I know you won't, but it's reflex."

"You don't know I won't," Deathwheels rested a hand on Fang's shoulder, the same place Ratchet had grabbed and impatiently shook earlier, but this was a very different sort of touch. Fang looked up at him, surprised by the contact. Their optics met. "Leaders need people the can trust. You need someone you can talk to, and not worry about it coming back to bite you later. You're trying to trust me, I can tell, and I appreciate it, because I'm loyal. But you can't know that for sure, for hundred percent. You're taking a chance on me, just like you take chances with everything else you do. Mostly it works out for you."

"What are you offering, Death?" He thought he knew. It shook him to his core. "Besides undying devotion, loyalty, and all that slag."

"I'll be at your side until the end, good or bad. Until I'm offline or you are. They won't ever get information out of me that you've trusted me with. I'd reformat myself first. But you're always going to have doubts, boss. It's your nature. You don't trust anyone completely." Deathwheels's gaze was level. There was nothing of the dumb, nearly drone-like minion in his expression now. This was the real Deathwheels. "I owe you my life, and I personally like you."

"Flattered." The sarcasm slipped from his vocalizer easily. "Glad you like me. I try, really, I do."

"I _like _you." Deathwheels moved again, and this time, it was completely unexpected. He slid a hand under Fang's legs, and an arm around his back, and scooped him up off the table.

"What the _slag _are you doing!" Fangface protested, "Put me down or I'll blast you right now ..."

"You're outgunned," Deathwheels grinned. Fang's tail was pinned under his arm, the laser rifles harmlessly aimed at the ceiling. "You trust me with bigger weapons than your protoform could ever begin to support."

"And I'm going to reformat you into a slagging trash compactor if you don't put me down!" Fangface's battleroutines activated on their own as he panicked. He'd trusted Death as much as he had ever trusted anyone, and this was how he repayed him? Deathwheels had a fierce grip on him. Death knew Fang's fighting style. One arm was restraining Fang's clawed feet, and the other had Fang's shoulders locked to Death's chest. Deathwheels was vastly more powerful than he was, and in this position, he couldn't fight back.

"I trusted you, you slagger! I did! I hope you rot in the Pit for betraying me!"

He was sure this was a coup and that Deathwheels had tricked him into letting him close by uttering soft words and flattery that he had _almost _believed. They had a privacy shield up on the room so no sound would escape. Death could blast him into bits and no one would ever know.

"You trust me so much," Death noted, "that you're ready to kill me now simply because you don't understand what I'm doing."

The much larger mech, rather than trying to kill Fang, simply settled down to the floor. "That table won't hold my weight," he murmured, a shocking nonsequitor that left Fang frozen as he tried to figure out what Deathwheels had in mind.

Death leaned against a wall, still holding Fangface. "I'm sorry if this hurts your hip," he murmured, as he held Fang close to his chest, tightly. "You can trust me. I want you to know you can trust me."

"Sorry way to show it, you fragger!"

"If I'd suggested this without getting a good grip on you first, you'd run like a scared rabbit,or possibly slagged me." Deathwheels let Fang slid down a bit, so that he was sitting between Death's legs. This freed Fang's feet and he whipped his uninjured leg up, digging his claws into the first bit of armor he could reach, which happened to be a seam at Deathwheel's knee.

Death froze in place. "Are you going to tear me to shreds now? I thought you said you _trusted _me."

"You just assaulted me!" Something kept him from dealing out a crippling injury.

"I didn't hurt you," Deathwheels let go of Fang entirely. "But I wanted to prove to you that you _don't _trust me."

Fangface started to scramble to his feet, hip be damned, but Deathwheels raised a hand into the line of view of his primary optics and Fang realized he was holding an interface cable. He froze in place, on his knees, staring at that object. Death wanted to _what_?

"Okay, a huge freaking monstrous world of _no_!" Fangface did try to get up in a panic. Deathwheel's free hand grabbed one wrist and pulled him back. Their armor clanged together as he landed face-first against Deathwheel's chest plating. Panic rose in equal measure with pain. He yelped, then vowed, "You try to hack me by force and I _swear _I'll scramble every synapse you've got."

"I'm better at coding than you by far," Death noted, sounding both hurt and amused. "And I'm not going to hack you. But this definitely proves you don't trust me, if you think I would."

"Coulda fooled me, what your intentions were." He was being held loosely. He could shred Death's armor in a heartbeat, get at his spark, and rip it out. His hip hurt like the pit, but the worse pain was the agonizing feeling of betrayal. Deathwheels was absolutely correct that he was better at coding than Fangface. "That's generally what Decepticons do with interface cables."

"You can leave your firewalls up." Deathwheels tone was soothing. "I just want you to see how I feel."

There was a _snick _as Death clicked the cable into his own port. Then Deathwheels caught one of Fang's heavily clawed hands, and pressed the other end of the cable into it.

Soothing hands spread across his back. He was on his knees, pressed up against Death's chest. He looked up at the other mech's face, framed on either side by enormous tires. That configuration was Fang's design; Death had a tremendous number of sensors packed into the rims of those tires. He was not built to be the average minion; Fang had wanted him to be useful in all sorts of ways.

He looked at the cable in his hand. It was worn and old.

"I repeat: you can keep your firewalls up."

"Yeah, and the moment I connect you break that promise and batter your your way through." Fangface's jaw set with angry suspicion.

Deathwheels lowered his hands, and leaned his head back against the wall. Fangface was free to go. "I see. Very well, Fang. But this offer stands. And I'll never try to manhandle you again. I just ... you would have run, the moment I even implied this. I wanted you to stick around and listen to the offer."

"Why?"

The other mech was silent for a moment. "You've got nobody who's close to you. That's not right. You need people you can trust. I'm offering to prove you can trust me."

"Because -- why, you hero worship me?" Fangface started to stand up, but a wave of agony from his hip convinced him that this was a bad idea. He was going to need help getting up, slag it all, and the only mech around to help him was his minion. The thought he might need Death's assistance getting up rankled.

"Because I'm yours." Deathwheels shuttered his optics. "I'm sorry, Fang. This was ill-advised. I just ... I like you, okay? You don't trust anyone in this universe. But you saved my life, and you cared enough about me to build me a form I really appreciate. I _like _being big. You knew I would. You want me to like you, you want me to trust you, and you desperately want me to care about you. But you're too scared to return the sentiments. You might like me, you might care about me, but it only goes so deep because you cannot bring yourself to trust me. And you want me to care about you, but then you don't really believe it when I do."

"You're crazy."

"You need crazy."

Fangface didn't know what to say, so he fell back on snark. "Maybe you just want me 'cuz I'm the most powerful mech you know."

Deathwheels sighed. "There's much more to you than just a Decepticon warlord."

"My own _side _abandoned me," Fangface balled his fists. "That kindof makes an impression on a mech. You can only trust people so far, Death. Something you need to learn. People follow me because I'm the better alternative, but that'll change if things go south. I can't let things go bad or I'll get slagged right out of command."

"I'll follow you even if things go bad." Deathwheels reached a hand out, and Fang should have pulled away but he didn't. The hand rested lightly on his arm. "You just said that the Autobot's biggest strength is their loyalty. Things are _bad _for them, yet they're sticking together. They love Optimus, and would die for him. Even when we defeat them, they will stick together. They will never splinter apart. Not his core team."

"Your point is?" His hip was agony. He rested a hand unwillingly on Death's knee, optics narrowing in pain. His position was awkward, neither seated nor upright, but halfway in the middle.

"Maybe I should have b-been created an Autobot. I'll follow you for loyalty, past the point of my own good."

That ragged admission made Fangface tense up, and he shifted his weight and jarred his damaged joint. With a small cry of pain, Fang slumped back forward, toppling against Deathwheel's chest. Arms encircled him immediately, and Death murmured, "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"Yeah, you're a sorry aft."

Death's hands were astoundingly gentle. He wasn't actually restraining Fang any more, just holding him close. "I just want you to believe how loyal I am, Fang. I want you to take a chance on me."

Fangface hesitated. Deathwheels was very still. He hadn't been this close to another mech except for Wheelie since he'd been a sparkling himself. Additionally, his own mentor had been cold, efficient, and professional. The engineer who had designed him had been creating war machines, not children. He had heard regular praise as a youngling for jobs well done, he had been a favorite of his creator, but in his life few had ever shown him any affection. There was a huge difference between 'good job' and 'I like you.'

_Screw the universe, _he decided finally, _if he frags me when we interface it's a chance I'm willing to take._

Either he was going to get hacked and reformatted in the next few minutes, or his entire world was about to be turned on its head. Fingers shaking, he popped his own interface port open and connected the cable. Death's offer had woken a hunger he didn't know existed.

Death made a disbelieving sound as Fang initiated the access by opening a link. He honestly didn't know what to expect. He'd never done this before with anyone. Most 'cons didn't -- it was too dangerous to trust another, and then if you did partner with someone, the partner was a weakness. He'd never allowed anyone to interface with him, had never desired it, and had rarely been asked.

"Fang ..." Death whispered, in utter shock. Then he bowed his head forward. "Oh, Primus, thank you."

_:Thank me?: _Fangface said, over something akin to a commlink. Neither of them had lowered firewalls. Teasingly, he added, _:Or thank Primus? Your context wasn't clear there, buddy.:_

Then Deathwheel's core defenses came down. A rush of emotions surrounded him: love, affection, worry, fear for him, utter trust, and a shatteringly convincing sense of _loyalty_. Fang was so shocked his weapons systems came online, because he tended to react to anything unknown with battle routines. Death froze in place, hearing the whirr of capacitors. Fang realized belatedly that he'd never powered up his laser rifles before this point; on some level, he had known it wouldn't be necessary. But this new input was so foreign, so alien, it made him frightened on a whole new level.

"Easy," Deathwheels said, as if he knew exactly why Fangface was suddenly humming with inadvertently hostile subroutines. The rush of love that came with his next words made Fang's spark stutter in his chest. _:I'm not going to hurt you. Easy, Fangface. It's okay. It's okay. It's strange, it's different, it's all new, but it's a good thing. I'm never, ever going to hurt you.:_

He'd never known ... never expected ... _love_. He was _loved_. And it was a pure feeling; Deathwheels wanted nothing back other than Fang's trust. _:I am your dog,: _Deathwheels thought at him. _:I am your loyal soldier.:_

:You love me ...:

Until that moment, Fang had not loved him back. He liked the way that Death's snarky sense of humor and bright and cheerful personality made him feel when they joked about, and he valued him as a skilled subordinate, and for both those reasons he wanted nothing to happen to him. Additionally, Death was his secret; few others really knew that Death was so much more than a dull-eyed, violent, and unthinking bodyguard. Most assumed he was just Fang's muscle. But that wash of feelings, that new and shining realization that he was actually _loved_ ... it was so completely unexpected and so wonderful that something fundamental changed in his spark.

_:I didn't know you really felt that way.: _Fangface wasn't transmitting emotions, but he couldn't keep the quaver out of his commed response.

_:You do everything you can to make people like you,: _Deathwheels replied, softly, to Fangface. _:But you never really believe it when we do. You care for us, but it's almost as if you're trying to impress us. You treat us well, when the other officers were evil and vile, because you liked the sense of power it gave you when we looked up to you. It made you feel clever and smart and influential, when lesser mechs saw you as their personal hero.:_

He wanted to argue. He could lie to Deathwheels, he could deny the other's words. His own firewalls were still up.

Deathwheels sent him another pulse of that stunning love.

_:Why? If you knew that I don't really care that much about you, why?:_

:Because you also do _care.: _Deathwheels fingers were tracing small circles on Fang's armor. _:Deep inside you, you do care. I've never seen you be casually cruel to those below you. And you are funny and smart and you have dreams beyond anything I would ever dare to imagine. You are the greatest hope our race has had in a hundred thousand years, and I love you for it. I am your dog, Fang, and any time you need confirmation of that I will lower my firewalls and show you. I want you to trust me, to know that you have at least one person who truly believes in you.:  
_  
A stray thought touched his processors lightly. _Deathwheels deserves a universe without war._

And then, purely on impulse, he dropped his own firewalls, and let Deathwheels see the real Fang. He expected to be rejected. His snarky sense of humor hid fears he couldn't name. There was the fact that he wanted power almost as much as he wanted peace, and on some days, the power was more tempting than the adulation that leading his people to a peaceful conclusion of the war would bring. Somehow, his thoughts went to the real reason for claiming and raising the sparkling Wheelie: he'd wanted someone who worshipped him, who had never known anyone _but _him, and who could therefore be trusted. Deathwheels saw that in the bond, too.

Wheelie had been an eye-opener. A few days after hauling the sparkling to his quarters and roughly uploading operational code to his processors, he'd woken from recharge to find the child curled up between his paws, trust and innocence all rolled into one small package. Awake, though, he was another matter entirely. Wheelie already had far more personality than the blindly obedient slave he'd planned on, and yet he had found himself fiercely protective of the little mech as well as deeply amused by him. He never wanted to let the child go from his optics. For the first time ever, he had loved another in Wheelie, and then Starscream had kidnapped him away. Fang had assumed Wheelie dead, and it had been a miracle to find him alive on Earth, and he was happy that his charge was with the Autobots. He'd told Optimus that he wanted Wheelie to be safe, but that wasn't strictly true.

He had gotten a glimpse of a better life during the few years he'd spent among them. He wanted that upbringing for Wheelie. The Autobots would give him the love that Fang had never known, and Wheelie would be happy among them. He wanted Wheelie to be happy. However, he missed Wheelie terribly.

Death's arms tightened around him as Fang's grief struck him. Not just over Wheelie, but a thousand things he never let slip to anyone.

_:You asked me to find out about Grimlock because you felt guilty, didn't you?: _Death realized. _:It wasn't about tactics at all.:_

:Oh, tactics too.: Fang objected, but weakly.

_:You wanted to know how badly your actions had hurt him. Fangface, blast it all, I didn't even catch that ...: _Deathwheels sighed. _:I love you so much but sometimes I don't understand you at all.:_

His words -- and the raw emotion that accompanied them -- hit Fangface's pleasure centers and made him groan. He'd never expected that this day would turn out this way. And to his stunned surprise, and clearly to Death's, Fang reciprocated with real feelings right back. _:I love you too. Oh, Primus, Death, you see me as I am and you still love me?:_

It was a different sort of love than he had for Wheelie, that was for sure. It hit him like a crashing wave, throwing his world out of kilter, and then resetting everything he'd ever believed in with slight changes. He was worthy of love, the intimate love of one adult for another, and he could _give it back. _  
_  
:I knew what you were like.: _Death's emotions were making Fang ride higher and higher on a wave of intense pleasure. He was warm, and safe, and somebody loved him, and somebody _understood _him, and he could utterly and truly believe it to the core of his spark. He was loved. He was trusted. He was wanted. He was far from perfect, and some might say he was evil, but Deathwheels loved him. Death repeated, _:I knew, Fangface. I knew.:_

:I love you. I don't deserve you.: Fang sent, along with real feelings of guilt. He had so much to be sorry for in his life. He didn't deserve a gift like Deathwheel's love. But Primus! He was willing to take what was being offered, and reciprocate with everything in his spark.

His own emotions made Deathwheels groan aloud. Fang lifted his head to see Death's expression. His optics were offline, his mouth hanging slack. The hands on his back had stilled.

_:Love you ...: _He wasn't sure who said it, Deathwheels or himself. _:Never gonna let you go ...:_

His pleasure centers discharged, then, with a flood of absolutely blinding feeling. He soared, lost in the feel of the other's thoughts whispering through his and reinforcing all that was good, all that was right, and promising a future he'd never really dared dream of. He slumped into Deathwheel's arms, and Death rearranged both of them so that he was cradled comfortably against the other's chest. "Recharge," Deathwheels whispered. "I'll be here. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll always be here."


End file.
